The Widow's Demise (2 page)

“At least let me dance with you again
tonight.”

Delores smiled. “Well, my dance-card is quite
full, but if you’re a good boy and agree not to squeeze my hand as
if it were an orange, we’ll see.”

“But it’s your ball – ”

“And as hostess I’m expected to mix with the
company and dance with whoever wishes me to. And I must tend to
those duties now.”

With that she walked away and left Trueman
standing rigid and forlorn.

***

It was ten o’clock when Louis LaFontaine and Gilles
Gagnon entered the ballroom unannounced. However, they were quickly
spotted by their host, Humphrey Cardiff, who trundelled over to
greet them.

“Welcome, Monsieur LaFontaine,” Cardiff said,
putting out his hand.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Louis said.
“We’re not always so welcome among Tories.”

“Tonight there are no politics, only a ball
for charitable purposes.”

“We are pleased to be here,” said Gagnon,
feeling awkward because his English, although quite good and
improving daily, was not as fluent as he would have wished.

Whereas Louis LaFontaine was very tall and
courtly and authoritative, his associate, Gilles Gagnon, was short
and red-cheeked, as if he had just stepped off the farm. But his
appearance belied a shrewd and able strategist and advisor to
politicians. He and Louis were inseparable.

“I understand your name will be put forward
in nomination for the by-election in the Fourth Riding of York,”
Cardiff said affably to Louis.

“You have heard correctly,” Louis said. “And
we hear that you will be one of the nominators for Mr. Arthur
Dingman of the Tory persuasion.”

“I deem it an honour. Mr. Dingman is a
respected member of Toronto society.”

“And will be a worthy opponent,” Louis said
graciously.

“May the best man win,” said Cardiff. “Now,
please help yourself to the champagne. The food will be served at
midnight.”

Louis and Gagnon brought their drinks over to
where Beth and Marc were standing on the sidelines. A brisk lancers
was being danced on the floor of the ballroom.

“Not dancing?” Louis smiled at Marc as he
bowed to Beth.

“This is the first one we’ve sat out,” Marc
said.

“He’s not as young as he used to be,” Beth
said.

“None of us is,” Louis said.

“Would you do me the honour of the next
dance?” Beth said to Louis.

“It will be my honour,” Louis said.

While Louis and Beth were dancing, Marc broke
his promise by talking over the upcoming nomination meeting with
Gilles Gagnon, who was acting as chief organizer. Moments later
Robert Baldwin came over and joined the conversation. Francis
Hincks was dancing with his wife. Robert’s wife had died five years
before and he had not married again, nor did he plan to. He
worshipped the memory of his Elizabeth, and that was enough.

“You will start off the nominations?” Gagnon
said to Robert.

“Yes, I’d love to. But I’d like to go over my
speech with you and Louis beforehand,” Robert said. “It’s a bold
move to bring a French-speaking Quebecer into an English-speaking
riding, as we are, and none of us knows quite how we ought to make
our pitch.”

“At least it’s a rural riding,” Gagnon said.
“Lots of these farmers were sympathetic with the Rebellion, weren’t
they?”

“Some of them were in it,” Marc said.

“I won the riding with a large majority,”
Robert said. “We should have no trouble.”

“That’s what Louis and I thought at
Terrebonne last April, but we didn’t allow for the savagery of the
dirty tricks that were played on us,” Gagnon said grimly.

“I doubt that that will be repeated here,”
Robert said. “Humphrey Cardiff is running Dingman’s campaign, and I
think we can count on him to fight fairly.”

“Then you haven’t heard?” Marc said.

“Heard what?”

“That Cardiff has enlisted the help of D’Arcy
Rutherford,” Marc said.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Robert said. “That
is not good news.”

“Who is D’Arcy Rutherford?” Gagnon said.

“An organizer with a reputation for dirty
tricks,” Marc said.

“Well, we saw every trick in the book in
Terrebonne,” Gagnon said. “Road blocks, goon squads around the
polling station, outright bribes, visits to farmsteads to
intimidate – the whole works. We have to be prepared for them this
time out.”

“We’ll have a strategy meeting at Baldwin
House tomorrow at eleven, shall we?” Robert said.

“Good idea,” Gagnon said.

The men now turned to watch Louis and Beth
dance. Marc noted that Dolores was in the set once more. This time,
however, she was not with Lionel Trueman but a
distinguished-looking gentleman Marc recognized as Horace Macy, a
local chemist whose business had fallen on hard times of late. He
was a short man with a posture designed to add height and authority
to his demeanour. He was looking up at Delores with calf’s eyes.
Delores did not return his worshipping gaze.

When the dance was over, Macy trailed after
Delores and stood beside her in an alcove near the dais, where the
orchestra continued to play.

“You’re a hard person to get alone,” Macy
said.

“We’re hardly alone, Horace. There’s a
hundred other people in the room,” Delores said lightly.

“Alone enough for me to say what I have to
say.”

Delores looked coy. “And what weighty words
have you for me?”

“I didn’t like the way you were dancing with
Lionel Trueman.”

“But Lionel and I are merely good
friends.”

“It looked more than that to me.”

“You worry too much, darling.”

“You know I’m mad about you.”

“I have become aware of that, yes.” She
smiled and batted her long lashes at him.

“You don’t take me seriously.”

“How could I not?”

“I want you for my wife, you know that.”

“You mustn’t think of marriage so soon after
your wife’s death.”

“But it’s been a year and a half.”

“That long?”

“You must marry me.”

“But I told you right from the start that one
marriage was enough for me. I’m no longer the marrying kind.”

“Then why do you lead me on?” A pathetic,
pleading tone had crept into Macy’s voice. The orchestra beside
them struck up a fresh tune.

“I like your company, and you enjoy mine. Why
can’t we leave it at that?”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not a
man.”

“Thank God for that,” Delores said, laughing.
“Now I really must see to my duties as hostess. You’ve monopolized
enough of my time.”

“You’ll dance with me later?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and waltzed away.

***

Beth and Louis returned from their dance.

“You cut a fine figure,” Marc said to
Louis.

“I danced a lot in my youth,” Louis said.
Before all our troubles began.”

“One should always make time for dancin’,”
Beth said. She turned to Gilles Gagnon. “Do you dance, Gilles?”

“A very little, I’m afraid,” Gagnon said.

“My word,” Robert said. “Here comes our
hostess.”

Delores Cardiff-Jones was moving with
deliberate steps across the ballroom towards them.

“Messieurs Gagnon and LaFontaine,” she said,
coming right up to them, “a very cordial welcome to our little
fête.” She spoke in flawless French. “I was delighted to see you
dancing, Monsieur LaFontaine. Would you consider it bold of me if I
were to ask Monsieur Gagnon here to take a turn with me on the
floor? I would be so honoured.”

Gagnon actually blushed. “How could I refuse
such a gracious hostess,” he said in a vain attempt to disguise his
doubts. He reached out and took her hand. They moved into a set
that was preparing for a reel.

“This may be a first,” Louis said. “Gilles
Gagnon dancing.”

“Our hostess is a very persuasive woman,”
Marc said.

Marc, Beth and Robert watched with bemused
detachment as Delores and Gagnon stepped into the reel.

“Well, it
is
a French-Canadian tune,”
Louis said.

“I do hope you’re beginning to feel somewhat
at home here,” Robert said to Louis.

“People have been most kind,” Louis said,
“considering all that’s happened between our two peoples.”

“They’ll be less kind once the election
campaign begins, I’m afraid,” Marc said.

“I’m anxious for it to begin,” Louis
said.

“My, look at Gilles go!” Beth said.

They turned their attention to the reel where
Delores and Gagnon were spinning about, arms enlinked, a sheen of
sweat on their cheeks, their eyes alive with the thrill of the
dance.

“Gilles has found himself a partner,” Marc
observed.

“It’s good for him,” Louis said. “He’s been
stuck too close to me for too long.”

The dance ended. Gagnon bowed deeply to
Delores. Their eyes met, and locked. Gagnon led her back to her
father, who was presiding at the head of the room. They exchanged
words, then went over to the drinks table. Marc noticed Lionel
Trueman nearby, stiff and trembling with some deep emotion. His
eyes never left Delores across the room.

***

The last dance before the food was to be served was
advertised as a waltz, the relatively new and daring form of dance
where the partners actually touched, hand to hip, and whirled in
unison about the periphery of the floor. Both Lionel Trueman and
Macy went up to Delores, and were politely rebuffed. Instead, she
walked towards the curtain that walled off the powder room and
paused beside a man who was standing there and who had been
watching her cross the floor. He was a darkly handsome man of
middle age, with brown eyes and black hair and a distinguished
bearing. A woman, who may have been his wife, was seated a little
ways behind him.

Delores said something to the man, and he
took her hand. The woman, from her chair, offered a protest.

“I can’t refuse our hostess,” the man said,
and followed Delores out onto the dance floor.

“Who is that about to waltz with our
hostess?” Marc said.

“That’s Cecil Denfield,” Robert said. “He’s a
lawyer in town. That’s his wife Audrey, sitting over there beside
the curtain.”

“She doesn’t look too happy,” Beth said.

“Our hostess doesn’t take no for an answer,”
Gagnon said.

They watched as Delores and Cecil Denfield
waltzed about the room. Denfield was a superb dancer. He stood
straight and tall, his left hand holding Delores’s right hand with
a balletic touch, while his right hand rested effortlessly upon her
hip. And yet there was no doubt that they were severely conjoined –
by the insistent, irregular beat of the music and their bodies’
synchronized harmonies. Their gaze was mutual and unwavering.

The music and the motion of the dancers was
rudely interrupted by the sound of a chair striking the floor,
followed by the shattering of a glass. Beth was the first person on
the scene. Audrey Denfield had fainted and fallen to the floor,
toppling her chair and breaking her champagne glass. She lay in a
tangled heap.

Beth knelt down, careful to avoid the broken
glass, and raised Audrey’s head. Beth began to fan her, while
others now came up and crowded around. Someone produced a vial of
smelling salts. Beth held it under Audrey’s nose. She coughed and
opened her eyes.

“Please, clear that glass away,” Beth said.
By this time a servant had arrived and bent down to remove the
glass, which had broken into several large pieces.

“Are you all right, my darling?” Cecil
Denfield said, making his way through the throng.

“I – I think so,” Audrey said.

Beth was moving Audrey’s arms carefully, and
decided that nothing had been broken. “Can you stand?” she
said.

“I feel very wobbly,” Audrey said. She looked
up at her husband. “Please, take me home, Cecil.”

Denfield, with Beth’s assistance, got his
wife to her feet.

“I’ll call for our carriage, darling.”

“Please do.”

To the buzzing of the crowd, who were more
than curious about the lady’s motive for fainting, Denfield led his
unsteady wife towards the foyer. By now Humphrey Cardiff and his
daughter had arrived on the scene to offer their condolences.
Audrey did not look pleased to receive them.

***

Marc and his party left the ball about one o’clock.
The dancing, for the young and inexhaustible, would go on for
another hour. Marc and Beth said goodnight to Robert, Louis and
Gagnon, and headed home. A brilliant harvest moon lit up the
storefronts along fashionable King Street.

“Well, you got through a whole evenin’
without talkin’ politics,” Beth said, leaning against Marc’s
shoulder.

“Almost,” Marc said. “I must confess that
Gilles and I did discuss the campaign for a minute or two while you
were dancing with Louis.”

“Shame on you.”

“But you did enjoy yourself, didn’t you, even
though you were determined not to?”

“I admit I did.”

“And so did Mrs. Cardiff-Jones, the merry
widow.”

Beth laughed. Then she said seriously, “But
that one is trouble, I suspect.”

The meeting began sharply at eleven o’clock the next
morning. It took place in the spacious parlour of Baldwin House. As
the day was warm, no fire burned in the fireplace with its façade
of Italian marble and great oak mantelpiece. A portrait of Robert
Baldwin’s distinguished father, William Warren Baldwin, hung over
it. Baldwin senior had designed his townhouse and several other
buildings in Toronto, architecture being one of his pursuits in
addition to medicine and the law. His son confined himself to the
law and politics. One of his great achievements so far was to
effect an alliance between the radical
rouge
party of
Quebec, led by Louis LaFontaine, and the Reform party of Upper
Canada, now Canada West with the merging of the two provinces into
one Canada. When the new united Parliament had met during May of
this year (1841), the alliance had held, despite the absence of the
French leader, who had been defeated in the riding of Terrebonne.
That election had been marred by fraud and violence. But the
coalition of leftist parties, French and English, had resulted in
its being the largest single group in the Legislative Assembly,
able to use its majority to favour those bills compatible with
their platform and to defeat those bills of Governor Poulett
Thomson, Lord Sydenham, that contradicted their views. The Baldwin
forces had scored a major triumph by introducing a set of proposals
for responsible government whereby the Executive – the Governor and
his ministers (the cabinet) – would be subject to the authority of
the major party in the elected Assembly. While these proposals were
vetoed by the Governor, he felt obligated to introduce proposals of
his own, which turned out to be not dissimilar to Baldwin’s. But
Fate had intervened. On September 4 Lord Sydenham fell from his
horse and was severely injured. He was not expected to live.
Parliament had been prorogued as the death-watch began.